


Le Sacré Coeur

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Ace character, Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Parallel Universes, Queerplatonic Relationships, not quite, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6858100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I kept writing random snippets of stuff, and then I thought, why not bung them together? There is Athos, there is The Pinon Case, there is Porthos. Everything else is shifting, uncertain. Why? There are cats and kittens and bad allusions to Greek and Arthurian mythology, and everything is sunny. Except when it's not. Why is it not? What is the darkness? What's with Porthos' green thumb?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Sacré Coeur

**Author's Note:**

> I.... have no idea. Yeah. This just... happened. 
> 
> WARNINGS: traumatised child (non-central), Mentioned twice that Porthos was traumatised

Athos has coffee, he has sunshine, and he has his kitchen. Lots of big windows, French windows, glass set in the roof- there’s lots of light streaming in, even though it’s only just ten am. His garden looks good, which has nothing to do with him and everything to do with the man currently kneeling in the bed of roses at the bottom. Athos runs his eyes idly over the line of his back, smiling, sipping his coffee. The doorbell goes, though, interrupting.

Athos goes through to the front of the house, checking the peephole out of habit. Creampuff comes down the stairs, stalking him to the door, and sits beside him, licking her paw. Also nothing to do with him. Athos takes the chain off and leans against the frame, glaring at Charles d’Artagnan.

“Good morning, I’m Agent d’Artagnan, of the Scientific-”

“Yes,” Athos says.

“Right. I’d like-”

“No,” Athos says.

“You have a cat? Aramis gave me the impression you would be living in a dark hole with just books for company,” d’Artagnan says, pushing in past Athos.

He bends to pet the cat, then makes for the kitchen. Athos sighs, but follow him. If Aramis is the one at the bottom of this he should at least offer his guest coffee. d’Artagnan gives a long answer that means ‘yes, with no milk and one sugar’. Athos looks outside, but his garden is empty.

“What does Aramis want?” Athos asks, sitting back with his coffee. Creampuff jumps up into d’Artagnan’s lap.

“She’s just lovely, isn’t she? Entirely white. That’s got to be rare. What’s her name?”

“Creampuff.”

“I’m here to make you an offer.”

“No.”

“We have a case that- what do you mean, ‘no’? I haven’t even told you the offer, yet.”

“I will not be coming out of retirement, I will not be helping on your case, I will not be offering you use of my library. I will not be inviting Aramis for dinner. What else? I will not be lending you my car. I will not be participating as some kind of outside ‘control’. Am I close?”

“No,” d’Artagnan says, looking smug. Then his face falls and he rubs the back of his neck. He’s very young, Athos realises. “Well, yes. Pretty close. The case is an internal one, and we’re a little worried. Aramis is, anyway.”

“You work with Aramis? Directly?” Athos asks.

“Yes, he’s my immediate superior. I tell everyone we’re partners. He tells everyone I’m his apprentice. Or servant, depending on his mood.”

That is a surprise. Aramis has, so far, refused to work with anyone not Athos. And Athos left nearly ten years ago. He gives d’Artagnan a more interested look-over. He is young, he can’t be more than twenty four. He’s dressed well, a very nicely tailored suit that has Aramis’ taste written all over it, but with a flare that is not Aramis at all- a beautiful, conservative-grey, silk tie, Italian leather shoes, a flash of colour at the ankle, and a wide, shawl-like scarf.

“Athos?” someone calls from the backdoor.

“Kitchen,” Athos calls, turning to the hall, smiling.

Porthos comes in with a box full of fresh veg, bare-foot, hair tied up. He puts the box on the side and comes over, kissing Athos’ cheek.

“I was thinking of making you breakfast. Oh. Didn’t realise you had company, sorry. I’m Porthos, I live next door,” Porthos says, holding out his hand to d’Artagnan.

“d’Artagnan,” d’Artagnan says, taking the hand, giving Athos a questioning look.

Athos keeps his face blank, and lets d’Artagnan deduce whatever he likes about who Porthos is and what he knows.

“Do you want breakfast?” Porthos offers. “I brought some strawberries from the garden, and some potatoes and onions from the allotment. Thought I’d do a bit of a fry up, Mrs. Tailor gave me eggs yesterday, I brought some of them too.”

“Sounds good,” d’Artagnan says. “However, I should really…”

“No, stay,” Athos says, waving a hand. He’s curious.

Porthos smiles, and sets about making breakfast, humming to himself while he chops. He uses the microwave to get the potatoes soft, which Athos had balked at, when he first saw Porthos do it, but now does himself. It makes things so much quicker. Before half an hour has passed, Porthos is setting plates of fried potatoes, eggs, toast, and sausages in front of them, and a large bowl of strawberries, raspberries and Sharon fruit in the middle.

“Some ‘a this is from the market,” Porthos admits.

“It looks amazing,” d’Artagnan says. “You garden?”

“Got a bit of a green thumb,” Porthos says, ducking his head shyly.

“I love strawberries,” d’Artagnan says.

He compliments Porthos enough through breakfast that Porthos has to pretend to go to the loo, absenting himself for a bit, when he’s finished eating.

“Stop saying nice things,” Athos says.

“What? Oh, does it embarrass him? I’m sorry.”

“No, no. He’s just shy,” Athos says. “So. This case. What is it?”

“I’d rather not talk about it with a civilian so close.”

“A bad one. What?”

“Um, well… Pinon. The Pinon case.”

“Ah. Milady. Of course. What else would send you all scrambling?” Athos says, sighing deeply, sitting back.

Porthos returns, re-taking his seat, and they talk of other things.

***

Aramis meets Athos in Porthos’ living-room. Athos doesn’t know that that is what’s going to happen, he’s merely looking for his Terry Pratchett books that Porthos keeps on stealing. Porthos is upstairs in the bath, singing loudly. Athos pops into the bathroom to let Porthos know he’s there, but otherwise leaves him alone and focusses on the task in hard. Namely, retrieving his stolen property. When he sees Aramis sat, legs neatly crossed, sipping tea, he nearly shrieks.

“You’ve been out of this game too long,” Aramis says.

“Yes, well,” Athos says, heart-rate returning to normal, taking a seat on the sofa.

“Is your gentleman friend going to hear us chatting?” Aramis asks.

“No. He’s singing, in the bath, and slightly deaf in one ear,” Athos says.

“Good. The Pinon Case. d’Artagnan says you showed interest, but didn’t exactly say yes.”

“Which is as good as a yes, I suppose. Tell me.”

“The usual. Leaks where there shouldn’t be any, cases collapsing at key moments, undercover operatives dead, networks being taken out.”

“You have a mole.”

“And no ferrets, because there have been leaks that are… no one except people with the highest clearance could do this.”

“They know you know?”

“About a mole? Probably. How high it goes? No, definitely not. We’ve set Internal Resources on the case, and they’re conducting an investigation. So if we let the mole influence and manipulate that, you should be able to operate relatively unseen.”

Athos nods. He hears Porthos pull the plug.

“Yes, okay, I’ll do it. Tell me the story another time, meet at my club. I’ll send you an invitation to lunch, we can set up a drop point. No, actually, use the old one.”

Aramis flashes a quick grin, gets to his feet and drains his mug. He’s out of the house by the time Porthos comes down, entirely naked, and still wet.

“Were you talking to someone?” Porthos asks.

“Yeah, it was just Aramis,” Athos says.

“Work work,” Porthos grumbles. “Hmph. My adorable little spy. I bet you could kill someone with a thumb and forefinger, hmm?”

Athos laughs, and Porthos sprawls next to him, giving him a quick, chaste kiss. Porthos doesn’t usually kiss. It’s nice.

 

((

“Porthos?” Athos asks.

He thinks nothing of it when Porthos isn’t around, in the evening. He thinks nothing of it when Porthos isn’t in his own house, when Athos goes around to see if he wants dinner together. He thinks nothing of it when he doesn’t see Porthos the next morning, or evening, or the ones after that. But, three days later, when he’s still seen nothing of Porthos, he’s thinking something of it. He shuts Porthos’ front door, beckoning Aramis upstairs to the bedroom.

“He makes the bed about once a week,” Athos says. “When I’m staying over. Look at it.”

“So? It’s made, and here you are,” Aramis says.

“I was supposed to stay over, Monday night. He sometimes gets busy at work, or doesn’t feel like it, so I didn’t think anything of it. But, the bed’s still made. It’s Thursday.”

“What are you saying, Athos?”

“Porthos is gone,” Athos says, leading the way back downstairs, to the kitchen. Which is spotless, except for a bunch of muddy potatoes that are sat on the side. “He dug those up on Monday.”

Athos shows Aramis the flowers, in a vase on the table.

“Fresh from the garden, on Monday. I saw him down there, kneeling, cutting them,” Athos says. “He usually does that when he means to bring them to me, at dinner. He thinks it’s romantic to give me flowers with dinner.”

“Alright,” Aramis says, turning in the center of the room. Then he walks back out.

“Aramis! Don’t you believe me?” Athos asks, following him.

“Shh,” Aramis says. “Come on. Through here.”

He leads Athos through the living-room, into the office. Then he turns another slow circle, before dropping into a crouch, hand palm down on the floor, head bowed. He breaths out, and the room lights up for a second, glowing a deep purple. There’s a green smudge, though, on the desk. Breaking up the purple.

“Does Porthos have power?” Aramis asks, straightening up, shaking his hand.

“Not that I know,” Athos says.

“d’Artagnan says he has a green thumb. That would lead traces, if it were power. But not like that. Did you see anything?”

“Green. On the desk. Like spilt paint.”

“Oh. Yeah, I thought so.”

“Like blood.”

“Yes. Someone did something to him, in here. To his power. The desk, you say? You can trace him, with that.”

Athos nods. He hasn’t used his power in years and years. Six years, to be exact. Since he met Porthos. He takes a deep breath, sets both his hands against the desk where the mark was, shuts his eyes, and focuses. He’s never needed much. His power has always been easy to control. Warmth settles in him and he opens his eyes, his silver veining across wood of the desk. Aramis sets his hand over Athos’, and the wood goes that deep green again. Athos pulls his hand slowly away, silver trailing from him. Aramis nods and fists his hands, rubbing them against his trousers.

“He’s in the house,” Athos says, eyes rolling back in his head to follow the silver threads.

))

They walk carefully, in a line. Athos brings up the rear, Aramis takes lead, d’Artagnan paces steadily between them. They keep out of the shadows, keep from touching too much beyond the light cast by their torches. d’Artagnan stops to stamp now and them, sending bright bursts ahead of them.

They move deeper into the house. Deeper than should be possible. The house defies its construction, stretching ahead of them, beyond sight. Athos wants to run, to shout for Porthos, but he doesn’t. He walks at the back and breathes deeply, sending his power out with d’Artagnan’s, feeling, feeling.

When it comes, it’s not a trace, not spark, not a dot. It’s huge, a wave, over and over, washing over and over him. He trips, falling into d’Artagnan.

“Athos,” Aramis says, reaching out to steady him.

“Porthos,” Athos explains, pushing past them.

d’Artagnan starts to dance, and his light follows Athos as he runs, breakneck, spriting towards the source. He’s breathless, light sparking around him, d’Artagnan’s power singing, music trickling over him. He bursts through and suddenly there’s light all around. Sunlight. The sound of water, real water. And green. Everywhere is green- trees, grass, flowers. Athos laughs, and calls the others.

“Wow,” Aramis says. “We knew… I mean, that kind of colour, and the way your power traced him… but… sunlight. In here.”

“Yeah,” Athos says. “Porthos!”

Athos looks around, calling again. They search, walking, sticking together, all amazed at the sheer scope of the gardens. It starts to rain, and through the fine mist of water, Athos sees a familiar, bent back, by the river. He laughs again, running, ploughing right into Porthos as Porthos straightens. Porthos grunts, but catches him.

“Hello tiddlywink,” Porthos says warmly. “Good to see you. Are you here to rescue me?”

“Yes, yes. Always. I’ll always rescue you. Especially when it’s my fault! But, Porthos, look at this! Look at you! My God.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Porthos says, scratching his head and looking around, a bit ruefully. “When I realised it wasn’t proper reality, and the rules were all messed up, I went a bit over the top. Did you come through the mango grove?”

“No. There’s a mango grove?”

“...no?”

Athos laughs, hugging Porthos close again.

“I missed you,” Athos admits.

“Yeah? Awesome beans. Do you like my river?” Porthos asks, turning.

Athos looks. It’s just a river. Only…

“Are those dolphins?” Athos asks.

“Nope. Porpoise. I dunno where they came from, actually. Bit of an accident, that. There’s some silver things in there, too. Dunno what they are, but they ain’t fishies. Got some trout, too. Thought, you know, fish and chips. Couldn’t bring myself to eat them, though. Oh, here we go here we go. It started doing this just recent. Watch this.”

The rain stops, and the sun comes back out, and the entire river ripples, water turning coloured, like stained glass. A rainbow. Athos huffs out a laugh, leaning into Porthos’ side.

“You bloody old queer,” Athos says.

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees. “Did you bring d’Artagnan? I guess you must’ve, to get through the dark. Horrible stuff, that. Tried to eat me. I turned some of it into a tree. You know, like Arthurian myths, or The Tempest. And Aramis… never met him, dunno what he does. Oh, no, look at my river. He does that, eh? All them colours. Pretty. How’re we getting out?”

“With this,” Aramis says, tossing Porthos something.

“Oh,” Porthos says, grinning. “An apple. Couldn’t get any of those to grow here. They’re my- oh. You want me to… right. I can do that, with the apple, right? Okay. Yeah.”

Porthos reaches for Athos’ hand, and Athos reaches for Aramis, who reaches for d’Artaganan. Porthos takes d’Artagnan’s other hand, apple between his teeth, then he shuts his eyes. Athos feels a tugging sensation, and the world goes silver for a moment before clearing to his back garden.

“Oh bloody hell, Aramis,” Porthos whispers. “Fuck me with a rainbow. Bloody hell. I did not expect that. Oh you fuck, you stupid fuck. Did they know this? Oh, ow, bloody hell.”

Porthos crumples to the ground, unconscious.

“What?” Athos says, scrambling to him, kneeling by his head.

“No,” Aramis says. “They don’t know that. I didn’t expect him to use our powers, sorry. I would have said something. I didn’t know he even could.”

“Green thumb,” d’Artagnan says. “We’re like seeds. He grew us, as it were. Until we grew into him. I guess. What don’t we know, Aramis?”

“There’s a bit more to my power than I usually disclose,” Aramis says.

“He’s a fucking seer,” Porthos mumbles, coming to. “Ow. Migraine. This happen a lot?”

“He gets migraines a lot, yeah,” Athos says. “Inside?”

“Nah, just give me a sec… ah ha. There we go. Fucking rainbow,” Porthos says, getting back to his feet. “Aramis my friend, you are not a pal. But you did rescue me. So, here you go, this one’s free: don’t go home without your umbrella. Leaving your umbrella here ends up in a very strange place.”

“Got you,” Aramis says. “Though, you know, time hardly ever works like that.”

“Yeah well. Dragons, man,” Porthos says.

“Oh? Cool. I like that trouser leg,” Aramis says. “So, we got your Porthos back. What now, Athos?”

&&&

Athos is lying on his back, in the garden, lazily watching the swoop of the dragons. They’re not dangerous, just swimming over the city, busy with their own affairs. Like big birds. Athos knows they’ll only get violent if he annoys them. Porthos is digging a bed a few yards from Athos’ head, whistling cheerfully.

“Aramis rang me, this afternoon,” Athos says.

“Oh yeah? Same thing that agent this morning was after?” Porthos asks.

“Mm. My ex wife is caught up in a case we thought I closed going-on fifteen years ago.”

“Anne?”

“Yes.”

“I like Anne. She makes excellent pancakes. Invite her for brunch and you can discuss it over those pancakes while I smother myself in syrup.”

“Mm. Okay. Annie likes cooking for you.”

~~~

“The Pinon Case seems to be a constant,” Treville says, leaning on the desk, arms crossed, examining the blackboard.

“I’m a teacher, sir. I’m not going to help you with your case,” Athos says, completing the equation anyway.

“Fine. Your Porthos seems to be a constant, too. A linch pin. Something decidedly definite about him.”

Athos smiles. Queerplatonic soul mate indeed. Porthos may not have been being so overblown and romantic afterall. Porthos himself chooses that moment to come into the room. He’s wearing a newspaper origami hat, and he’s covered in paint.

“Crafternoon Friday?” Athos asks, laughing, reaching to rub at the smudge of green on Porthos’ cheek.

“You know it,” Porthos says. “Hello, you have company.”

“Treville,” Athos says. “Old colleague. Treville, this is Porthos.”

“Good to meet you,” Treville says, interested.

“I teach the youngsters,” Porthos says, gesturing to the hat.

“They’re ten. Not that young,” Athos says. “You’re just indulgent.”

“Yeah, a bit,” Porthos agrees, grinning. “I’ve got a new picture to stick on our wall, Athos.”

“We have an art gallery,” Athos says. “In my hallway.”

^^^

“I didn’t mean to bring her with us, but where else was I going to take her?” Aramis defends.

Athos forces open his front door, ignoring his keys. He stomps through to the kitchen, and finds Porthos sitting on the table, with the cat, and a kitten. Porthos looks up beaming at him. Athos sighs and waves a hand as people troop in behind him.

“This is Aramis, Treville, Milady, and d’Artagnan you met this morning,” Athos says, going to put coffee on.

“Milady?” Porthos says.

Athos changes him mind and goes and gets wine instead.

“Another cat?” d’Artagnan asks.

“A first cat?” Aramis asks. “Athos, you’ve gone soft.”

“He was always soft,” Treville says. “Are you offering us wine, or drinking it all yourself?”

“Hello,” Milady says, interest and flirtation in her tone.

Athos turns and sees her, hand against Porthos’ chest. Porthos is cradling the kitten close, eyes wide, staring at her.

“Anne,” Athos warns.

“Oh, no need, darling,” Milady says. “We know each other, don’t we?”

“I found a kitten, Ath,” Porthos says, coming over to Athos, eyes still very wide. “Found it in a box. Just left there. No other cats, no people, just the kitten.”

“Still have a thing about cats, then?” Milady says.

“It’s just tiny,” Porthos says, breathing much too fast. “Tiny little cat, Ath. Look. Little baby one.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Athos says, gently, gently, closing his hand over Porthos’ where he’s clutching the kitten. “Did you name her yet, love?”

“Love. Call her Love. Yes?” Porthos asks, so worried. Afraid. Athos pulls him close and presses a kiss to his hair. The kitten mewls. “She’s hungry.”

“If you call her love, it’ll get confusing when I call you that,” Athos says.

“Oh. Milady, then?” Porthos says. “We can call her… no. Because.. .Athos. I don’t understand.”

Athos frowns, trying to get a look at Porthos’ face. Porthos has his head tucked right down, though, and his eyes glued to the cat, and won’t look at Athos. His head tilts to the side as Athos watches, and his eyes skitter over to Milady again. Then he faints.

“Porthos!” Athos cries, slowing his hasty descent to the floor.

The kitten wriggles out of Porthos’ lax grip and hurries over to Creampuff, under the table. Athos kneels, patting Porthos’ cheek, everyone around him.

“Bleeding Lancelot. He does that every time,” Milady says. “He’s not harmed. Or if he is, it’s his own bloody fault. Try giving him a good slap, that’s what I usually do.”

“Lancelot? What are you on about? How do you know each other?” Athos demands, not taking that advice.

“It was a long, long time ago,” Milady says.

“Anne!”

“Shout at me all you want, Athos. Wait till he wakes up. He can tell you. I don’t feel like it. Do you have any whiskey?”

Porthos stirs, and Athos turns his attention back, ignoring Anne rooting through his cupboards. Porthos blinks slowly awake, eyes going right to Milady. Then he looks at Athos, frowning.

“Why is Morgan le Fey in your kitchen?” Porthos asks.

/////////

Athos watches intently as the SWAT team clears each room. He hasn’t been allowed to go in with them, but he’s allowed to watch on TV. He’s got to be there. This is the last address. One more room, then… then Athos doesn’t know.

The room is empty.

_Sir, there’s a door here, under the rug. Trap door._

Athos sits up, heart pounding. It’s not a room, just a small crawl space under the floor. Athos is up off his chair and running, ignoring the people trying to stop him. He makes it just as they’re pulling Porthos out, Porthos blinking awake, groggy and bloody-faced and gagged but alive. Athos crashes to his knees, pulling Porthos out of the others’ arms into his own, removing the gag, helping Porthos sip some water.

“Oh my love, oh my love. Oh Porthos. Oh my baby. I’ve got you. I found you,” Athos babbles, on and on a stream of helpless, unstoppable vowels tumbling from him in a messy scrawl.

“Hello,” Porthos rasps, hand closing over Athos arm. “Ath, they took my cat. They took Creampuff.”

“Did you guys see an entirely white cat anywhere?” Athos asks, looking up.

There’s a mass of headshakes, and a few winces. Athos hopes the winces don’t mean that the cat has come to harm.

%%%

“This is your secret headquarters?” Porthos asks, riding the lift up with Athos, looking around with curious interest. “It’s just an office block.”

“Yep. Government contracts, private business, lots of security,” Athos says. “Here we are. This is us.”

“Sacred Heart,” Porthos reads off the big placard over the door. “Eh?”

“Treville thinks it’s hilarious. S.A.C.R.E, sacre. Sacred in French. He thinks he’s clever.”

“I am clever,” Treville says, coming striding out of the office. “In here.”

The boy’s still sat where he was when Athos left to get Porthos, head tilted to one side, eyes glazed, hands out. The ice has thickened all around the room, and it’s like stepping into a freezer. The ice is veined in yellow, fuzzy, like pollen. There are bees, too. Dying of the cold, falling to the ground. Porthos bites his lip.

“Can you do something?” Treville asks.

“Yeah, I can fix this, easy,” Porthos says. “You don’t have any powerful Magi here?”

“Not elementalists,” Treville says.

“Oh. I could fix it, but I think it’s probably all linked up inside him, tangled with his trauma. It might harm him to do that. Let me sit with him a bit?”

“Sure,” Treville says.

He and Athos settle just outside, watching through the glass. Porthos sits cross-legged at the kid’s side. He keeps the bees alive, though he can’t bring those already dead back. He makes them flowers, growing them out of the ice. They freeze, too, but Porthos just grows more, until the room is a wonderland of ice-sculptures.

“Does he know what he’s doing?” Treville asks.

“He understands the boy’s power. He’s a therapist. He does plant therapy with people, teaching them to grow things, teaching them about love and earth and nurturing. Finding peace with them. He was a traumatized child himself. Yes, he knows what he’s doing.”

The thaw comes after three hours, the ice slowly melting away. The room fills with sunshine, instead, the plants bowing in a gentle breeze, the bees humming. Porthos lifts the boy into his arms and bears him out, to them.

“Charon told me a lot of things,” Porthos says. “Does he have somewhere to go, somewhere safe?”

“No,” Treville says. “Child Services is working on it, but it’s hard to find care for…”

“He can come with me,” Porthos says. “I’m set up for emergency foster care, they’ll probably comes across my name at some point.”

“Alright,” Treville says. “Can you tell us anything?”

“Interdimensional parallel universes, Arthurian mythology, Greek mythology,” Porthos says. “You’ve heard of the trouser legs of time? Multiverse theory?”

“Yes,” Athos says. Treville nods.

“Well, it’s not theory any more. Something is disrupting, somewhere. Sending vibrations. Charon here has deep elemental magic, so when the intrusion came, he got… confused.”

“Violent,” Treville corrects.

Porthos shrugs, and carries the child away. If they want to know more, it’ll have to wait.

£££

“Hello, Arthur. Where’s your knight in shining armour now?”

Arthur looks around. It’s dark. Not just darkness, hungry darkness. There’s someone there… a tree. Not a someone. He draws excalibur and blinks into the murk.

“I’m here.”

Arthur turns, and there’s sir Lancelot, Morgan with him, and a short man with very good hair and a strangely scarred lip, and a tall man who looks very young, and a beautiful man with a sword, and someone else.

“Gwenevere,” Arthur murmurs.

She steps forwards, hair tumbling over her shoulders. She smiles the way she always had. Lancelot steps forward, too. Either side of him. He turns back, ready.

“Constance?” Lancelot says, sounding unsure.

“Right here, lovey,” Gwenevere says.

“Is that your tree, Porthos?” the short man asks.

“Yeah,” Lancelot says.

“Time to unweave that particular magic,” Morgan says. “Then we can let our king vanquish it.”

“Excalibur in his left hand, his knight and his queen at his side,” Lancelot says.

“Yes,” Arthur agrees. “Shall we? Once more, for old times’ sake.”

“Once more,” Morgan agrees. “As many ‘once more’s as it takes. It is Merlin, sire.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, bowing his head. He knows. His mentor always becomes the tree, the darkness. The age of him buckles, always.

Morgan nods, and the darkness unspools around them. The tall man at their back starts to dance, and light grows, from just dim sparks to bright flashes and bursts, weaving and careening around them. Silver veins the light, working it’s way into the grooves of the tree, then the world goes multi-coloured, the magic throbbing in the air suddenly visible. King Arthur straightens his back, raises excalibur.

Merlin steps out of the mist, stooped, scowling. He’s wearing blood-red robes and a cap, like a cardinal. He stalks towards them, hissing insults. Arthur leaps forwards, blade shining.

><><><><><

 

The Moirai sit in the dark and spin, and measure, and weave. They are undisturbed, except by prayers. When he comes, they do not raise their heads. They do not listen to his voice. He sits with them, cross-legged, and tells them stories, and though they do not hear, the stories get woven in with the rest. Deeper and deeper. 

 

He is found by six. Three immortal souls, three who have the grace. They call him Bonnaire and arrest him for slavery, and then for theft, and then for other things, one after another. As they list his crimes, the Moirai sit and wave, and the stories correct themselves, the weft and weight becoming measured once more. 

 

The furies come for him, of course. To break laws like that is to be marked, but it is the immortal who calls them. Porthos, Lancelot, du Vallon. Pain and shackles and trauma deep within him demand vengeance. The furies come, and the six are sent back, and Moirai are left alone to weave. 

 

****

 

Athos sits in the kitchen, French windows flung wide, watching Porthos out in the garden. Porthos straightens from the flower bed he’s working on, and turns, raising a hand in greeting. Athos expects him to come up, but he doesn’t, going back to his own house instead. The doorbell goes, so Athos goes to deal with that instead of trailing Porthos like a lost puppy. 

 

Creampuff is sat on the stairs, washing her fur. She gives him a glare, and stalks to the door to glare at whoever’s on the other side, too, in all probability. Athos opens the door, forgetting to check who it is. Ten years out of the game, entirely safe, is enough to erode certain habits. It’s only Aramis, with a tag-along at his back. Aramis holds up a carton of grape juice.

 

“I brought an offering,” Aramis says. 

 

“And a friend,” Athos says. 

 

“Oh, yeah. This is d’Artagnan, my apprentice,” Aramis says. 

 

“Partner,” d’Artagnan corrects, stepping around Aramis and offering Athos his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, agent de le Fère, sir.”

 

Athos ignores the hand and picks up his keys, clicking his tongue until Creampuff steps outside. He shuts the door and leads them all around to Porthos’ front door, Creampuff darting ahead at the last minute, dashing in through the catflap to warn her master of intruders. Or to go nap in the laundry room. Athos unlocks the door and they troop inside. 

 

“Shoes,” Athos says, pointing to the neat line of them. 

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan bend to get theirs off, and Athos, already bare-foot, goes through to search out Porthos. Porthos is in the kitchen, arranging flowers in a vase. 

 

“Hey,” Porthos says. “Got impatient waiting for me to come cook for you? Why’d you come the front way?”

 

“I have guests,” Athos says. “Didn’t know what to do with them, so I brought them to you. You’re always bringing me your strays, so I brought you mine.”

 

“I only brought you Creampuff. And Darling. Where is Darling?” Porthos asks, peering around.

 

“No idea,” Athos says. Aramis comes in, grinning. “Where’s d’Artagnan?”

 

“He found a kitten in a boot. He likes kittens,” Aramis says. 

 

d’Artagnan comes in beaming, looking all of twelve years old, Darling cradled to his chest. 

 

“Is she yours?” d’Artagnan asks, looking at Porthos. “She’s so little and soft.”

 

“Isn’t she?” Porthos says, grinning, going over to stroke her. “She’s called Darling. She is mine, but she lives with Athos most of the time, seeing as he doesn’t work and has more time for snuggles. She got in my boots again?”

 

“Yeah,” d’Artagnan says. “What do you do for a living?”

 

“Work at a garden centre, part time,” Porthos says. “I was about to make breakfast. Are you two staying?”

 

“Yes,” Aramis says, without hesitation. “Athos brought me some of the brownies you made, last time he visited me at the office. I think I am now the most popular DI in the entire world, because I shared.”

 

“Pancakes,” Athos says, sitting at the table.

 

“Waffles?” Porthos offers. 

 

“Yes,” d’Artagnan says. “Waffles are amazing. I love waffles. With strawberries?”

 

“There are some in the garden, if you go pick them you can have them with breakfast,” Porthos says. 

 

Aramis and d’Artagnan both go, Darling following them. Athos watches Porthos moving about the kitchen. 

 

“Porthos?”

 

“Yeah, love?”

 

“I love you.”

 

“Oh. Right. I know that,” Porthos says, coming over to kiss Athos’ forehead. “Someone ask you to define stuff again?”

 

“No,” Athos says, flushing. “Fine. Yes. Asked why we don’t kiss really, or live together, or ‘anything’. They said ‘anything’.”

 

“We do stuff,” Porthos says. “I give you flowers, we have breakfast together. We share our gardens. We share our lives. We love each other. Just because we do it our way, not theirs.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Do you need anything else?” Porthos asks. “You know you can ask for anything you want.”

 

“Maybe a kiss, now and then. Just once in a while. I think I’d like it.”

 

Porthos gives him a warm smile, and gentle, chaste kiss on the lips. 

 

“Like that?” Porthos asks. Athos nods. “Yeah, alright. Now and then.”

 

“Now and then,” Athos agrees. 

  
Creampuff comes in from the laundry room and tries to eat the waffle batter, and Porthos gets distracted shooing her away. Then d’Artagnan gets back, fingers red with strawberry juice, Aramis complaining about the amount d’Artagnan ate. Athos relaxes, breathing deeply. Porthos is right: what else could he possibly want?


End file.
